


Sympathy for the Devil

by Bettername



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Humanstuck, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:09:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bettername/pseuds/Bettername
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>	“Hello Mr. Strider I am calling on behalf of HS Adult Video Corporation. As you may know HS is celebrating its thirtieth anniversary this year and is commemorating the occasion with a special series of films whose actors and scenarios will be chosen by the fans themselves. We are contacting you to see if you would consider participating in this event.” </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His legion of fans have paired him with Kurloz Makara a.k.a. The Grand Highblood, former faux-snuff film star and founding member of the horrorcore rap group The Subjugglators.</p>
<p>The fans in their infinite wisdom have also voted on the scenario and they want a touch of domestic fluff with their smut.</p>
<p>Being a legendary porn star is hard and Bro Strider understands that all too well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cherry Cola

“Strider Taxidermy Services, you love ‘um, we stuff ‘um.” The pause on the other end of the line is so pregnant the proud papa is burning rubber trying to get to the hospital. Just because a chump wants to speak with you doesn’t mean that you have to make it easy for him. 

“Can I ask who I’m speaking with?”

“I don’t know, can you?” Another pause. 

“May I,” emphasis on may, “speak with Mr. Bro Strider.” This one is a quick learner. 

“This is he speaking.” 

“Hello Mr. Strider I am calling on behalf of HS Adult Video Corporation. As you may know HS is celebrating its thirtieth anniversary this year and is commemorating the occasion with a special series of films whose actors and scenarios will be chosen by the fans themselves. We are contacting you to see if you would consider participating in this event.” 

“You are aware that I haven’t worked for HS for over ten years right?”

“Yes, we are aware of that, but we are hoping to compile a list of popular current and former actors from the past thirty years given that they are both willing and able to. And to the best of my knowledge you are still an active member of the adult entertainment industry.” 

“I am indeed the overlord of a multi-million dollar empire built on the backs of hard working smuppets.” 

“Smuppets?” You hear the rustling of papers over the phone. 

“Only the finest felt creations ever devised by mankind whose sole goal is to satisfy your every carnal need,” you purr. 

“Ah, yes.” The man on the other line remains unaffected jaded by years of earning his paycheck off of others’ sexual acts. “Dirk ‘Bro’ Strider owner and operator of PlushRumps.com a website dedicated to puppet pornography and paraphernalia as opposed to the Dirk Strider who runs the recently established Ponies at Play website.” So that’s what Dirk’s been up to lately. Pony play. It’s not smuppets but, it’s a worthwhile endeavor none the less. You’re interrupted while mulling over the possibilities of a collaboration. “Any relation if I may ask?” Of course photos would be included in the files. 

“He’s my brother’s son.” Technically he’s your clone from a different universe than yours, but try explaining that. Hell, this isn’t even your original universe but your past has stayed nearly the same except that a little over nineteen years ago you somehow managed to knock up Roxy of all people. It’s funny how the big things like wars, famines, and genocide changed, but the little things like you being a former porn star didn’t. 

“Mr. Strider are you still interested in being part of the project?” Time to reel yourself back into the present.

“Gimme the details.” He does and then informs you that he will call you back in several weeks’ time if you have been chosen to star in one of the films. He thanks you for your time before hanging up.

You don’t think about the phone call again until he calls you back three weeks later. The fans have chosen and they picked you. They also decided to pair you with Kurloz Makara. The name does not ring a bell, nary a single one in the cathedral. 

“Makara? What is he one of the more recent additions to the stable?” 

“No, he was part of the company approximately around the same time that you were.”

“So why haven’t I heard of him? Seems a little odd don’tcha think.”

“In Mr. Makara’s instance no. He starred in more… Well he specialized in… certain videos.” Ah, the allure of ‘certain videos’. The seedy underbelly of the internet and you know them so well.

“Chains, whips, chips and dips?” The answer to your question takes its good sweet time arriving.

“Snuff films.” Well that caught your attention. “Fake snuff films,” the words tumble out of his mouth in a rush. “No one died in them of course. HS would never engage in illegal conduct and not of…”

“Fake snuff films and other assorted weird shit, I get it. I don’t need the pre-scripted bullshit that your company uses to cover its ass. What I really want to know is if this guy starred in such obscure videos then how the hell did he land on the fan favorite list in the first place? And the even bigger question, how in fuck did he get picked once on it? That is what I would like to know. So please if you would, enlighten me.” 

“Mr. Makara used the funds he earned while in the adult film industry to launch a more,” he coughs, “lucrative career in another form of entertainment.” 

“Which was?”

“The music industry. He formed a band.”

“Which band? I might have heard of them.” 

“The Subjugglators.” Now that name you’ve heard before. You wander over to your stacked milk crates of LPs and start flipping through. After a few seconds of searching your fingers land on the riot of color. You pull out your copy of Slay the Heretics and lock eyes with the painted face on the cover.

“He’s the Grand Motherfucking Highblood,” you murmur to no one in particular.

“Mr. Strider?” 

The beast looks like he could eat you alive. You hope he does. 

“I’m interested.”

“Sir?”

“I’m interested. Now all you have to tell me is when and where.” 

The where is San Antonio. The when is a little over a week and a half. You decide to use your time until the planning meeting wisely and research all that you can about your soon to be co-star. 

You are not obsessive.

That is a lie.

You purchased their remaining four albums and appreciate that a band that started in the early nineties releases all their music on CDs and vinyl. The thousands you spent sound proofing your shitty apartment years ago were worth it. Horrorcore, the bastard child of hardcore rap and death metal, isn’t exactly your usual background music of choice while you’re watching porn. But you can’t deny that he fucks the way his music sounds. 

It’s unrelenting aggression with a beat and you are looking forward to it.


	2. Dr. Faygo

You arrive five minutes early to the meeting because showing up late is not ironic, it’s rude. The conference room is a sea of beige broken up by the occasional dry erase board and generic black office furniture. Two exits, three windows, nine people. Eight of the nine people can be neutralize without breaking a sweat. Any conflict with the ninth will result in a Pyrrhic victory at best. The ninth is occupying the seat with the best vantage point of the room, rear corner of the conference table a few feet of wall to his back before the first window and diagonal to the two doors on the opposite wall. If he has chosen his seat on purpose, the ninth does not want to be taken by surprise, but has no doubt in his ability to clear the people that would stand between him and the nearest exit. What sets the ninth apart, besides from his tactical advantage, is the fact that he is the only person in the room wearing face paint. 

Kurloz Makara is not the person that you expected. He is wearing an exceptionally well-tailored dark charcoal grey pinstriped suit with a deep purple shirt, no tie, and top button left undone. His black and white face paint reminiscent of a skull looks professionally done and his mane of hair is wrangled into a low pony tail. He studies you for a moment before giving you the slightest of nods. You return the nod and sit down in the chair opposite his. You have the second best seat in the room. It will have to suffice.

Despite what others may think they know about you, you are not one for dramatic entrances. Dave Strider, the elder, is not you. He struts into the room like he owns the place. Which given his net worth and ties to the movie industry is not beyond reason, but your extensive previous research shows that he does not. This Dave should be in California working on yet another insipid movie. Not here.

“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. I don’t think that I need an introduction but I will do so for those who have been living under a rock for the past couple of years.” That earns him a few chuckles. “I am Dave Strider the creative genius behind the Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff franchise and I will be the director for this fine adult feature. Now before you all ask why such a ludicrously successful Hollywood director is doing in the porn industry in Texas, I just could not pass up the opportunity of directing my older brother Bro Strider.” A few of the HS people seem a bit surprised at the revelation. “Give the poor bastard a hand for not knowing what he was agreeing to.” 

The unmistakable sound of a soda can opening cuts through Dave’s smug like a knife. That crack hiss is a choir of angels. Your savior is none other than Makara who is unrepentantly sipping from a can of grape Faygo while Dave is openly glaring at him from behind his aviators. Dave’s poker face could use work; his annoyance is all but palpable.

“Do you wish to partake in the wicked elixir?” 

“No. Thank you,” Dave tersely replies. 

“Do you have orange?” you ask. Makara pulls one out of his sylladex and hands it to you from across the table. “Thanks bro.”

“It is not a hardship my brother.” 

You crack the can open and watch the muscles in Dave’s jaw clench. If this is a dick measuring contest there must be at least two or more dicks involved and you are more than willing to whip it out. You raise the can in a toast. “Let’s give my lil bro a hand for not knowing what he was getting himself into.” A few of the HS suits in the room look like they want to intervene but are sorely lacking what to say. There are three huge dicks in the room and two of them have the penises to match. 

The elder Dave Strider isn’t what you would call “The Full Package”. 

“Anyone else care for refreshments or can I get this ball of perversion rolling?” Not a soul moves from the table as Dave stares them down. “Excellent. Let’s get down to brass tacks and upholster this chair. As I have mentioned before I will be directing this instillation of HS’s thirtieth anniversary Fan Favorite film series. The two actors chosen by the fans are the well- seasoned veteran Bro Strider who has graciously taken time out of his busy schedule of fucking puppets and filming it to join us in this endeavor and the illustrious Kurloz Makara also known as The Grand Highblood who recently finished his Scour the Earth tour with The Subjugglators. I would like to thank you both on behalf of the fans for participating.” That does earn a round of applause. 

“As you are all aware of the fans were also given the opportunity to vote on the corresponding scenario for the film.” You were not made aware of this, but given the types of films that you and Makara have featured in, the chosen scenario should be quite interesting to say the least. “After a considerable number of votes the scenario chosen was domestic.” You set your Faygo down on the table. “There was an overwhelming response from the fans in the comment section that they wanted to see Kurloz and Bro acting like a couple.” Dave cannot be serious. “Some of them specified that they wanted to see them engaged in quote domestic vanilla fluff end quote.” He has to be fucking with you. He’ll say jokes on you and everyone will laugh because he tricked you into making a facial expression. He mentions the word cohabitating and you lose your damn mind. 

“You’re fucking with me,” you interrupt him right in the middle of a sentence.

He looks up from the tablet in his hands and replies “No, Kurloz will be fucking with you,” without missing a beat. He sets the tablet down after a moment and leans forward in his chair resting both elbows on the table. “Bro, the fans have decided that they want to see you and Kurloz engaged in sweet fluffy domestic bliss. And do you know what you will do? You will give it to them not because I am telling you to, or not because acting like a regular human being for once in your life would be ironic. You will do it because they are your fans and they deserve it. So I suggest that you get to know Kurloz better so that you two can convincingly act as if you genuinely care for each other. And while I’m pulling you both out of your comfort zones I have two additional announcements to make. Number one, no smuppets. There will not be a single, solitary smuppet used during the course of this film. And number two,” he turns to look at Makara. “No face paint.”

You are not amused. Makara is an expressionless wall of silence that you could only wish to emulate. The HS suits’ anxiety only mounts as he pulls out another can of Faygo and cracks it open. He looks at you and you shrug your shoulders. Makara takes a sip before sitting it down next to the empty can on the table.

“Let us make our perverted brothers rejoice and recommence with the specifics of our most righteous endeavor.” 

“Ok. Well then.” Dave clears his throat. “Let’s get to it.”

The planning meeting hits its stride and you are suddenly reminded of one of the many reasons why you became independent. Planning meetings. Dave has the entire movie story boarded. Entirely too much time is spent picking it apart and mashing it into something that he and the suits agree on. You and Makara are just along for the ride. The meeting ends several hours after you walked into the beige box. Its five o’clock somewhere, just not here. You take Dave’s advice for once and invite Makara out for copious amounts of tacos and watered down beer.


	3. Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bro and GH exchange jokes in this chapter. As you can guess GH's joke can be offensive/triggering to some so if you do not want to be subjected to it look for "I will share with you a piece of mirth", skip that paragraph and the paragraph after it.

“Fracturable creatures are what we are my brother. The beasts that we once were would be given cause to weep at our blunted teeth and clawless hands.” Makara is waxing poetic to a small pill resting in his palm. He glances up and answers your unasked question. “Medication so I do not wish to greet the angel of double death after I partake in the foods native to this land.” 

“Tex-Mex is a cruel mistress.” He nods sagely at your remark and dry swallows the pill. 

You and Makara are at your favorite little taco joint back when you were still employed at HS. The food is cheap and the beer is plentiful. The Styrofoam plates are loaded with poor life decisions whose taste equals the amount of havoc it will later wreak on your system. The grease valiantly attempting to soak into the plates could make Cheney and his team of necromancers rethink ingesting the contents. Your poison of choice is vaguely alcoholic and reminds you of the piss of someone that needs to drink more water. You drink it despite your reservations. 

The two of you eat in silence. The space between is filled with Spanish wafting from the kitchen and the rattling hum of the beverage cooler. The afternoon is languid, unhurried. It is long after the last plate is emptied when Makara breaks the silence.

“If you were to face death and all that stood between you and oblivion were a joke, what last bit of mirth would you to impart on this existence?” 

“What joke would I tell to save my life?” If a joke could have saved your life… What ifs can’t change what happened to your brother. “A joke to save my life. Ok, I got one.”

“A guy walks into a bar and sees a big jar full of cash sitting on a corner of the counter. The guy walks up to the bartender and asks about the jar. The bartender tells the guy that he has a horse in the shed behind bar. He loves the horse; he’s had the thing for as long as he can remember. The problem is that he can’t get the horse to stop crying. The horse has been crying for months now and it won’t stop no matter what he’s tried. The bartender is desperate for a solution so he put the jar on his counter. Anyone who walks into the bar can try to get the horse to stop crying for five bucks. If they succeed they get to keep the contents of the jar. If they don’t succeed the five bucks goes into the jar. Simple enough. The guy puts five bucks into the jar and says that he’ll give it a go. The guy is in the shed for less than a minute when the horse bursts out laughing. It’s in hysterics, completely losing its equine shit. The guy walks back to the bartender, collects his money, and then leaves.”

“A few months later the guy walks into the same bar and sees the same jar full of cash. The guy walks up to the bartender and asks about the jar. The bartender tells him that the horse hasn’t stopped laughing since the guy left the bar a few months ago and he’s desperate for a solution. The guy puts five bucks into the jar and goes into the shed. He’s in the shed for less than a minute when the laughing stops cold. The horse doesn’t make a single peep. The guy then walks back to the bartender to collect his money. The bartender asks him can the guy tell him what he did before he walks off into the sunset never to be seen again. Curiosity is a powerful thing. The guy says the first time he told the horse that he had a bigger dick. The second time he proved it.” 

You find out that Makara honks when he laughs.

It’s weird but it fits. 

“Ok, your turn. Tell me a joke that could save your life.” 

You also learn that Makara has a joke telling stance. He moves his knees apart so his legs almost form a ninety degree angle. He leans forwards resting his elbows on the middle of his legs and his hands are open like he’s trying to catch a football. 

“I will share with you a piece of mirth fit for the Messiahs themselves. Three holy men were on a most mother fuckin righteous quest to spread the word of their lord to the heathen tribes dwelling in a land previously unknown to their religion. After travelling deep into the heart of darkness the three holy men happen upon a such a tribe. Their lord was not with them that day for the heathens were not receptive to the word. Instead the heathens seized the holy men and brought them before the tribal elder to receive his most wise and wicked judgment. The tribal elder saw that the three holy men had come to lead his people from their heretical ways and decreed that the interlopers had two fates from which they could choose. The first fate was death. The second fate was bulah bulah.”

“The first of the holy men told the tribal elder that his mission of serving his lord was not yet complete. The holy man was unable to choose death so he chose bulah bulah not knowing what it was. The elder flung his arms skyward and shouted ‘Bulah Bulah’. The heathens descended upon the holy man and performed all vile acts their wicked minds could formulate. His lord had stayed with the holy man for he survived his most obscene tribulation. The second holy man was brought before the elder. He told the elder that his mission of spreading the word of his lord to the heretical masses was not yet complete. The second holy man was unable to choose death so he also chose bulah bulah in full knowledge of what it was. The elder again flung his arms skyward and shouted ‘Bulah Bulah’. The heathens descended upon the second holy man but his lord stayed with him through his tribulation and he survived. The last holy man was brought before the elder. He told the elder that his lord would rather have him perish by the hands of the heathens than to undergo all those immoral acts just so his insignificant life would be spared. The last holy man chose death. The elder was silent as he weighed the last holy man’s words. The elder then flung his arms skyward and shouted ‘Death! By Bulah Bulah.’” 

You try not to laugh and fail miserably.

“If hell exists, I am going to burn exceptionally well for laughing at that joke alone. Fuck everything else that I’ve done. That is what is going to make me into a deep fried Strider family meal.”

“Then we will burn in the mother fuckin fires together my wicked brother and delight in its conflagrant embrace.” 

Delight is not the word you would have chosen, but then again… “It would be a dry heat.” He nods and you two spend the next few minutes sipping at warm beer while the ancient cooler rattles and hums. 

His company could be tolerable for the next couple of days. The pleasant buzz of finding another who can appreciate the unfettered joy of silence could be what motivates you to say the following. Or it could be the beer.

“The director wants us to pretend that we are boyfriends. Cohabitating boyfriends.” Makara’s interest seems piqued. Or he is surprisingly considerate and pays attention to whoever is talking at the present moment. “Given that we are professionals of this illustrious industry, and that we would not want to disappoint our fans in the slightest, I have a suggestion.” He waits for you to continue. “I think that we should practice. Because as every professional person who gets paid for having their sexual acts recorded for the viewing publics’ pleasure and perversion, practice makes perfect. And it is imperative that we know exactly what dosage of kawaii is necessary for each scene.”

“My plush enthusiast brother, do you also suggest that we engage in pre-establishment of partnership traditions to solidify our basis of understanding?” A date. He is asking you out on a date, for practice purposes of course. 

You were never one to shy away from a game of chicken. 

“Are you going to woo me Mr. Makara? Are you going to sweep me off my feet and prove to me how excellent of a pretend boyfriend you can be?” 

“I will cook you dinner.” 

He’s going to cook you dinner. The only other person who has cooked you dinner besides yourself is Dave and that consisted of him emptying the microwave of shurikens and heating up leftovers. 

“Consider your potential pretend boyfriend in the initial stages of wooage.” He writes down his address. You are to meet him there at 7. He asks if you drink wine. You reply with a yes and contemplate the possibility that you might actually want to change as he walks out the door.


	4. Grape

“Are you Mr. Bro Strider?” the door man asks as if being in your immediate proximity pains him. He and his thin mustache are literally suffering severe mental anguish from your mere presence in the lobby. It’s fucking hilarious. You reply that you are and watch him exercise a considerable amount of self- control to reinforce the metaphorical floodgates holding back his contempt and disdain for you. He does a reasonably good job, but you are better at reading people than he is at hiding his true feelings.

“I have been instructed to escort you to Mr. Makara’s personal elevator. Please follow me.” You follow him to an elevator that requires a key. The door man unlocks it and perfunctorily wishes that you have a pleasant evening. You get in alone and hit the button to the penthouse. The elevator stops a few moments later. The doors open to the shortest hallway that you have ever seen and abruptly ends in a massive black door. Makara has the monolith for a front door.

2001: A Space Odyssey plays in your head as you wait. A short electric buzz followed by a metallic click interrupts your ever so brief excursion into the possibility of resurrecting HAL. Not Dirk’s electronic fragment of himself. Your fragment. Well, multiple fragments. You need to stop ripping yourself apart into pieces that you shove into a box at the back of the attic only to be revisited on the rare occasion you go up there when you’re not spelunking strictly for crafting supplies. You remember the pod bay door incident as you open the now unlocked monolith and decide that leaving HAL turned off is in the best interests of you and humanity in general.

He named himself after a manipulative, functionally insane, purpose driven machine more focused on achieving a desired end goal than the methods used to gain the results. You told him that the name Bro was already taken so he chose HAL instead. That alone should be reason enough. 

Thoughts of your past misadventures get pushed to the back burner when you walk into Makara’s apartment. You were expecting a circus tent; instead you got a stark black and white marble masterpiece. The floors are black. The walls are white. A concrete and welded metal frame table separates the cavernous room living room and an open kitchen filled with yet more metal and concrete. Makara waves you over from behind the great expanse of countertop that borders the kitchen. He motions to a stool across from him. He did say that he was going to cook for you. Makara pulls out a stylized anatomically correct black ceramic heart out of the fridge and pops the cork as your plush rump hits the leather. 

“Greetings Strider, I thought that all misconceptions you hold of me should be cleared before we continued any further interactions.” 

“Baring your heart to me so soon?” 

“Pinot noir.” He fills the two wine glasses patiently waiting on the counter a third full. 

“Dark and sweet?” You study him as you take a sip of the wine and let your mind do the voodoo that it does so well. You know you shouldn’t, but you do it anyways. Real life of the party you are. “No.” You set your glass down on the countertop and slide your now empty hand across the concrete. “Cold, hard, and desolate.” 

Makara corks the bottle, a faint smile on his lips. “Is this not what you expected?” 

“What I expected was something more like one of your album covers.” You watch him bend down behind the counter and put a pan on top of the built in stove. “I expected whimsical chaos with a dark side.” He then transfers the contents of the pan onto a cutting board. It’s a baked stuffed heart tied with string. Makara takes out a pair of kitchen scissors and begins to cut the meticulously tied knots.

“I have reached the point in my existence where I can live how I want without the need for deception.” 

“You lied, but now you’re not?” Everyone lies. What interests you is how he answers the question.

“We all lie when it is a necessity. That necessity for me has since ended.” 

“You just happened to find it a necessity to create the persona of a madman and use it to convince the world that that is all you distill down to.” He puts down the scissors and picks up a knife. “Is who you are that terrible that you needed to create a monster to serve as a distraction?” Makara smiles as he cuts the heart into slices. “How long have you played the madman?”

“Many a long year.”

“Can you be certain that it is just a charade?”

“You have deduced it as such.”

“You didn’t need me for that.” Both of you know that. “Then why let me into your castle when I could stand outside the walls?” 

“I do not require you to fulfil my goals for the rebirth that I have longed to achieve has come to fruition.” He pauses. “In addition I find you intriguing.” He takes a sip from his glass and continues with his work. You watch him assemble dinner and mull over his responses.

“You wouldn’t hesitate to use me.” 

He finishes by wiping errant carrot glaze off the plate. “Wouldn’t you?”

“We’re already using each other for our mutual benefit.” The results of his effort are a feast for the eyes. Your eyes meet his as he slides a plate to you. 

“Do you not like what is before you?” He pulls strings. You pull strings. What is there not to like?

“No.”

“Then let us continue.”


	5. Candy Apple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look it’s a bird, no it’s a plane, no it’s a rating upgrade! This fic is now rated Explicit for your reading pleasure.

You and Makara move to the table and trade questions that you both already know the answers to over dinner. Makara has thoroughly researched you as well as you’ve researched him. It’s refreshing to meet someone who is fucking prepared for once but not one police station trip away from a restraining order. There are questions left unasked. You want this monochromatic Rubik cube to last longer than the others. 

But in the end this is all just pretend. 

The conversation flows with a languid ease. The lulls are comfortable and the food is excellent. It tastes better than it looks. You don’t know how it’s possible but you are not going to question perfection. For desert he brings out intricately made fruit tarts. They taste like a great set at the club sounds, but in your mouth.

Perhaps you’ve had too much wine. Perhaps you’ve had just the right amount of wine. You settle on the latter as you watch him gather up the plates and deposit them in the sink from the living room. The furniture is sleek, modern, and leather. The rug is an oversized white fluffy affair scaled to match the room. It might be animal hide, but what kind? You resist the urge to take your shoes off and find out with your toes. You catch Makara watching you with a faint grin as he walks past the little brother of the dining room table and sits on a similar chair to yours flanking the couch. 

There is a couch and coffee table separating you. Makara isn’t a horny little twink looking for you to destroy his battleship. If you want to unwrap the present in his pants you’re going to have to work for it. Or at least get off your pleasantly plush rump and stride over there, which constitutes as work in your point of view. However, and this is a big however, you have lusted after his dick too long for this opportunity to blow away like dust in the wind. You’re getting paid to fuck him, or get fucked by him, in a little over a week. You do not want to wait that long. You also don’t want to come off as desperately panting after his dick. So what are you to do? Make a joke out of it, classic Strider move. You get off your ass and saunter over there. 

“Oh what do I have to do to get sempai to notice me?” Bastard looks like an impassive noble lounging on his throne. It gives you an idea. Time to dust off your acting chops. Makara quirks an eyebrow at the change in your demeanor. You’re not Bro Strider; you’re a naïve young thing throwing himself at the mercy of a tyrant in the hopes that he will spare your village from annihilation. You’re also on your knees, peasants should only beg favors from nobles while on their knees, makes them seem all humble and contrite and shit. Nobles and the pricks who like to think they are just eat it up. You hunch your shoulders in, clutch the bottom of your shirt, worry at your bottom lip, and give him the best look you have over the top of your shades. Makara doesn’t take his eyes off of you. You have one hundred percent of his attention. 

Good. 

Now for phase two. 

“Sir…” 

“Grand Highblood,” he corrects.

You break out of character. “Really?”

“It’s my mother fuckin title. I earned it, might as well make use of it.” 

If that’s what he wants then you’re game. You shrug your shoulders and resume. “Grand Highblood…” you take the subtle upturn of his lips as the go ahead to scoot closer. “Grand Highblood,” you look down to your right knee, “I know that this is not my place but,” quick snap to look him in the eyes, “I beg of you,” time to sell it Strider, “spare our poor unfortunate souls!”

Makara remains unmoved by your plea. “I have a fleet of warships orbiting your mud ball of a planet waiting at the ready for my command to reduce your home world to a molten ball of slag.” He leans forward and the way he looks at you gives you a thrill up your spine. “You will do more than beg.” Each word is spoken slow and deliberate. If this is his idea of acting, he deserves all of the Oscars that DeCaprio is never going to receive. 

“I…” Nothing comes to you. All the blood has departed your brain. It has vacated the premises to engorge much more important tissues down south, which sucks because you are floundering, awash in the sea of your own lust. Any time now brain… 

“Do not tell me that you entered my chambers and requested an audience without the full knowledge of the acceptance of your request would entail.” He slides to the edge of the chair and leans in towards you. You can feel his breath on your neck. “If you wish to save your planet from its most certain annihilation you must earn it.” Makara sits back in his chair and slides his knees further apart. 

You have enough blood in your brain to understand the implication. You maneuver yourself between his parted legs and get up close and personal to the beast barely restrained by Makara’s dress pants. It’s good to know that you’re not the only one raring to go. One button and zipper later you reach a straining pair of black boxer briefs. Good choice. You show Makara your approval of his choice in underwear by mouthing his cock through the fabric starting at the base and work your way up. Once the black fabric is good and soaked through you peel it back to free the main course. 

You want to build a shrine in honor of Makara’s dick. You want to sing its praises and tell people of its glory and wonder. It’s not the length, you’ve taken longer. It’s the girth. And it is glorious. You worship it with your lips and tongue. You’re retired from HS, but you are far from rusty. Makara digs his fingers into your hair and you show off your lack of a gag reflex. He eventually pulls you back by the hair and your mouth comes off his cock with an audible pop. You smirk as he releases you and motions for you to get up. You stand up and straddle his lap, your knees bracketing his legs. He reaches down between your legs and zips up his pants. For a split second you think you’ve screwed up until he wraps his forearms underneath your thighs and stands up. 

Oh. 

You wrap your legs around his waist and hang on while you dig through your sexcapades archives trying to remember the last time someone carried you. It has been a long fucking time. Your age had a one in front of it the last time someone even picked you up. He takes you past the kitchen and through a dark hallway to the last door on the left. He holds you up with one arm with ease while he opens the door and flips on the lights. Makara deposits you on a king covered in sumptuous purple sheets. He brought you to his room to devour you and you are more than willing to oblige. 

Makara undresses like he cooks, with care. He first removes his watch and sets it on top of the side-table closest to the bed. Next is his belt. He pulls it quickly freeing it from the belt loops. That sound has defeated many a lesser man reducing them into an expectant puddle of need. Makara unbuttons his pants and untucks his shirt. He then unbuttons his shirt and waits, teasing you with a fraction of his bare chest. You begin to doubt that there is a single aspect of his life that he handles carelessly. You stand up and shuck off your clothes with a practiced ease and showoff your hard earned assets. You lay back down on his bed propped up on your forearms and elbows with nothing on but a pair of increasingly tight orange briefs. 

He tosses you a bottle of lube. You take off your briefs and he takes off his shirt. The view is quite nice. You spread your legs and give him a show as you slowly help yourself relax. The amount of lube you use might be a bit much, but if sex isn’t dirty then you aren’t doing it right. His focus doesn’t leave you as he finishes undressing. He pulls a condom out from a drawer in the side-table and slides it on as you add another finger. 

“So how close am I to earning my poor mud ball an indefinite reprieve?” you ask.

Makara mulls it over as he watches you. “You have spared two continents from incurring my most righteous wrath. Five remain.”

“Two down, five to go. Go ahead. Use me to your heart’s content.”

Makara drags your hips to the edge of the bed. “Who is using who brother?” He hooks his arms around your legs and lifts up your lower half till only your upper back and head lay on the bed. “You desire this as much as I.” He lines himself up. “Do not delude yourself and do not lie to me.” You can feel the tip of his head against you.

“Fuck me.” Nothing. You look him straight in the eyes and he has the gall to raise his paint covered eyebrows. “I said fuck me.” 

“With pleasure.” He smiles and thrusts in. He’s balls deep by the third thrust. 

You aren’t holding onto the sheets just to stroke his ego. Makara fucks how his music sounds. It’s hard, fast and unrelenting. The only pause in his rhythm comes when he hoists your legs over his shoulders and thrusts back in. You swear when he finds what he’s looking for and then keeps pounding. Your orgasm hits without warning and your come paints a streak up your chest. Makara slows down to savor how you clench around him. A few thrusts later you feel him stop and pulse inside you. 

It doesn’t feel as much of a transaction as it should. You wanted sex. He wanted sex. You two had sex. That’s it, that’s all. But the night doesn’t end with something along the lines of ‘I’ll call you sometime’ when both of you know that neither of you have each other’s number. Makara lets you use the shower first. Such gentleman. Wow. You take your good sweet time. He is still in the bedroom when you get out of the shower. You change while he’s taking his shower and contemplate staying long enough to tell him bye before you leave. 

You wait. This is out of character for you. This is significantly out of character for you. You casually lean in the doorway of Makara’s room. You will see him; tell him that you’re getting the fuck out of Dodge, and leave. Solid plan. You’re solid plan crumbles the moment you see Makara walk out of the bathroom. Your brain temporarily grinds to a halt. Makara is sans face paint. You’re a grown ass man and you’re experiencing technical difficulties seeing a slightly damp naked guy in a towel. 

You’re old but your cock assures you that you’re not that old. A few minutes shy of an hour has elapse since your rocket landed. An hour between landing and a second liftoff isn’t unheard of at your age, it’s just infrequent. However, slightly damp naked Makara in a towel makes for excellent rocket fuel. It would be a damn shame to let it go to waste. 

“I forgot the islands,” you say abruptly. “The seven continents on my favorite mud ball are all safe and sound thanks to my plushest of rumps. But the islands, those poor tropical bastards were left high and dry clutching at their pearls in worry over their imminent destruction by an intergalactic Genghis Khan and his armada of mechanized doom.” You’re not sure that Genghis Khan had a naval fleet at his disposal but that’s what you’re going with. Makara for his part seems as serious as a man wearing nothing but a towel can muster. 

“That is a travesty that this brother cannot let stand.” 

“Makara, we have to fuck for the sake of mankind. Will you help me save humanity?” He nods and pushes you up against a wall. He grinds hard enough against you that you think he’s trying to get into your pants through diffusion instead of just taking them off. Yours and Makara’s hands and lips roam like greedy things. Neither of you can feel or taste each other fast enough. He breaks off from the frenzy and gets on his knees mouthing at the diagonal scar that runs parallel to a hip bone. You peel off your shirt for the second time that night and he takes care of your jeans and underwear. You hiss from hitting your head against the wall when he takes your cock in his mouth. Makara takes his time and lovingly runs his tongue around each ball of your ladder. He worships your dick with as much care and attention as you his, only you weren’t kneading his plush rumps like a well- lusted after shapely lump of dough. He licks a strip from root to tip before he, and more importantly his tongue, back off. 

Makara’s already standing up by the time you realize that he isn’t just taking a breather. You quirk an eyebrow and he tilts his head towards the side table. He walks over to the side table and grabs an all so familiar foil packet and rips it open. He rolls the condom on and wipes his hands off on the towel before he walks back over to the section of the wall you’re warming up with your naked ass. 

“I will fuck you without a condom and fill you with my come after we have exchanged papers stating that it is safe to do so if that is concordant with your wishes.”

“Why Mr. Makara, I feel as if I may be over- come by the vapors from your such blatant willingness to use me in such an obscene manner ill-befitting a lady of my standing. My maidenhood is as pure as the driven snow.” 

“I have borne witness to acts that suggest otherwise.” 

“You’ve watched my movies?” Makara smirks and closes the distance between you.

“And you mine?” 

“Proper prior planning prevents piss poor performance.” Makara chuckles at your reply. He’s close enough you can feel his body heat. “Do you remember the one that looks like you filmed it in a sex torture dungeon?” He hums an affirmative as his hands trail down your sides stopping at your hips. Makara peels his attention away from your well- deserved abs and studies your face. 

“I can do one better.” His hands slide down your back to the junction of your plush rump and upper thighs. Bullshit. He can’t be serious. “Put your arms around my shoulders.” Shit. He is serious. You comply. He lifts you up and you wrap your legs around his waist. Makara teasingly rubs his cock between your cheeks and all that you can think about is him fucking you up against a wall. He lines up and slowly pushes in. Makara takes his time sinking into you until he’s up to the hilt. Your back is cold against the marble wall but the rest of you is burning up as he lets the speed of his thrusts gradually build.

You want to dig your nails into his back as the pace quickens. Your urge to mark him only grows as the sweat rolls down your skin and you lose the desire to stifle your voice. You tell him about the marks you will leave on him after you’re done filming. The teeth marks that will last for days, the hickies he’ll have to start painting his neck to hide. He kisses you deep and slow after you tell him that you’ll wear the marks he gives you as a badge of pride. He stills and you shudder when your own orgasm hits. 

You don’t remember getting poured into bed, just the decision not to return to your own.


	6. Ginger Ale

It takes you a few moments to remember where you are once you wake up. There is not nearly enough shit strewn about to be Dave’s old room which you took over as your own after he left to spread his wings. It is as neat and tidy as a convent cell but strikingly nun-free. Not a sole sister in sight, which makes sense given that no righteous vow holding nun would ever allow this much marble and purple in a bedroom. A certain clown you’ve recently been acquainted with would. 

It’s seven twenty eight in the morning and you’re at Kurloz Makara’s apartment because you passed out after sex. Scratch that. You didn’t pass out. Striders don’t pass the fuck out. You fell asleep with unusual alacrity due to vigorous exercise which resulted in you spending the night in someone else’s bed. Dave has long since flown the coop so you don’t have to worry about him waking up alone in the apartment and the only worry you have with Cal is him brainwashing some twits into helping him destroy existence, again. However, the extensive booby traps should take care of any unwanted intruders. You throw on yesterday’s clothes and wander out of the bedroom.

You find Makara in the kitchen. The fact that he is in the kitchen does not surprise you, but what he is doing does. He is cooking breakfast and unless he can eat a small cow in one sitting he is cooking breakfast for two. Makara is cooking you breakfast. He cooked you dinner and now he is cooking you breakfast. All of your instincts that have ensured that you remained single are on high alert. Klaxons are blaring, lights are flashing. You have encountered a creature that you have only heard of from comedians. Makara is making you breakfast after you two had casual sex. He is going to cling to you like a koala on the last eucalyptus tree on the plant. 

Makara shuts down your internal freak out as abruptly as it had flared up. He points to his left, “wall”, behind him, “wall”, to his right, “wall”, in front of him, “wall”, and then to himself, “deity. Inside these four walls I am the mother fucking higher power and I desire sustenance. Either you eat what I make or you leave.”

You awkwardly stand equidistant from the front door and the vast kitchen counter contemplating what he said before you ask “No koala?” He doesn’t bother responding and returns his attention back to something that vaguely resembles a pancake. He’s hungry, you just happen to be here, and Makara just so happens to be a generous deity willing to feed your mortal ass. You toy with the idea of calling him Hestia, but it’s a little early in your pretend relationship for pet names no matter how fitting they may be. “So, what are you making?” 

“Crepes.” 

“Crepes,” you repeat. Makara glances up at you and you sit down at the stool your plush rump occupied last night and watch him finish cooking. 

The two of you eat in silence at the dinner table. He has coffee, you have orange juice. Not a single drop of aj in the apartment. Blasphemy. The crepes however, are a thing of wonder. They are light fluffy packets of delight and blueberry bliss. Breakfast ends with a phone call and not when the plates are empty. Makara disappears for a minute to the hallway and reappears grumbling “Harshing my mother fucking whimsy as if there will be no recompense.” 

“I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that you’re going to be tied up for the rest of the day and it’s not going to involve shibari.” 

“I have been summoned to meetings with those who are too wrapped up in their own self-importance that they will drown in their own egos before they recognize that I am not amused by their squabbles.” You quirk an eyebrow. “High ranking employees of my record label have become emboldened by my time spent abroad touring.” 

“Ah, Fun with suits,” you reply. 

“Indeed.” 

You stick around while he cleans up the dishes. A few minutes pass as you formulate your plan of action. If this is an elaborate game of chicken, then Makara has dealt an impressive first blow. You must respond in kind. You invite him over for dinner at your place tomorrow at six. He accepts. You leave his apartment with the wooage of your pretend boyfriend in mind. 

The walk of shame is a drive of victory interspersed with traffic and red lights. You savor your return to Casa de Strider and its marginally controlled chaos. You’re not nearly as fastidious as Makara and too set in your ways to change, but you do decide to throw out the empty pizza and takeout boxes. There isn’t a plot contingent on their continuing presence so they can go. You also disable the traps you have strategically placed all over the apartment. There is a possibility that you might have ‘accidentally’ missed one for the sake of curiosity. Curiosity killed the cat, but so many people forget that satisfaction brought him back. And you do love to be satisfied. 

The remainder of the day is frittered away fiddling with one of your many websites, talking about fabrics with your suppliers, and trying out a new game you dug out of the bottom of a bargain bin. Three hours later you can say with certainty that it’s the best twelve dollars that you’ve spent in quite some time. You go to sleep at a reasonable time. Tomorrow is a big day for you. 

You wake up in the morning fresh as a daisy and with thoughts as pure as the driven slush. But you are neither a daisy nor questionably clean snow. You are an eager little beaver with so much to do. The final piece is in place by a quarter to six. The plan is set. All you have to do is wait.


End file.
